


DIY

by rubyofkukundu



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Humor, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-18
Updated: 2010-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-07 04:39:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubyofkukundu/pseuds/rubyofkukundu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John have a conversation about masturbation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	DIY

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted here: <http://sherlockbbc.livejournal.com/338740.html>

  
There are some difficulties that are common to every flatshare: fights over who will buy the toilet paper; a bathroom left dirty for months because no-one can decide whose turn it is to clean it; the inevitable loud music at 3am in the morning.  
  
And then there are some difficulties that are peculiar to a flatshare with the world's only consulting detective. John's getting used to it, slowly. Finding half a dead pig in the bathtub on a Monday morning; coming home to the eye-watering smell of ammonia thick in the air; and discovering hastily scrawled annotations in _every one_ of his books; John's learning not to let it get to him.  
  
There are, however, a few more _delicate_ things that take a a little longer to get used to.  
  
Or, uh... to put it more plainly: John has a feeling that Sherlock can tell when he's been... ahem... _masturbating_.  
  
It doesn't stop John (he certainly doesn't have the ability go without for however long they're going to live together) but it is unnerving. God, is it unnerving.  
  
Not that John knows for sure. He's never asked Sherlock about it (Jesus, no), but there's no way that someone who's _that_ scarily observant would not notice. After all, Sherlock makes his trade by picking up on the tiniest of details, and there are some times, when John's just been... _you know_ , that Sherlock fixes him with this smug sort of look that just screams, _I know what you've been up to._  
  
Still, flatsharing is all about give and take, and John's willing to put up with a few inconveniences. He pretends to himself that Sherlock doesn't notice, and Sherlock, for his part, never mentions anything. John comforts himself with the thought that even if Sherlock can tell, it's not the sort of thing that Sherlock would care about, ever; it probably hardly even registers on his radar.  
  
And that's where it stands: a little awkward, maybe, but John can live with it.  
  
That is until... well...  
  
John's in the kitchen one morning, dressed for work, and drinking his first cup of wonderful, life-giving tea while he waits for the toaster to finish so he can have some breakfast. He's pacing a little, because he was meant to be at the surgery 10 minutes ago ( _only_ 10 minutes! He's doing well) and _Hurry up, you bastard toaster, I need to leave the house right now_.  
  
A disappointed sigh floats its way in from the living room. "Honestly," complains Sherlock, "how people can find this sort of thing arousing is completely beyond me."  
  
John ignores him, because he doesn't have time to hear a soliloquy on the stupidity of the masses right now. The toaster pings and John grabs up the toast, juggling it a little as it attempts to burn his fingers.  
  
"Especially you, John."  
  
"What?" Toast in hand, John wanders into the living room on a search for his jacket, only to find Sherlock hunched over the table in front of a screen full of pornographic images.  
  
For a split-second John can't think of anything other than _why_ , but then he realises that...  
  
The toast falls to the floor. "That's my f... my pissing laptop!"  
  
"I was only..."  
  
"And those are my...! Jesus, Sherlock!"  
  
Sherlock sits back resignedly as John snatches the laptop away from him. "I was only doing some research."  
  
"You have no right..." fumes John, as he hastily packs the laptop away into its case. "And it was... It was bloody locked, for God's sake!"  
  
"I've told you: it's incredibly easy to guess your password. If you are going to change it, at least change it to something that's a little less obvious. And the security on that folder wasn't particularly difficult to crack either."  
  
"No," says John, tugging on his coat. "I mean my wardrobe! The laptop was locked in my wardrobe! How could you have even..."  
  
Sherlock sighs and slouches back in the chair. "You were in the shower and I was _bored_."  
  
John throws his hands in the air. "Fine," he says. "Fine. Whatever." He slings his laptop case over his shoulder and stalks toward the door. "I'm going to work. I'm late."  
  
"You're taking your laptop with you?"  
  
"Yes." John says over his shoulder, and stalls at the smirk on Sherlock's face.  
  
"No," John scoffs, "I am not planning to do _that_ at work."  
  
The smirk widens.  
  
"Fine. Don't believe me." John opens the door and walks out onto the landing. "And I don't see what your problem is anyway. It's not like it's not perfectly normal, Sherlock! Everyone does it!"  
  
"Everyone?"  
  
"Yes!" says John and is answered by an unexpected silence. Confused, John turns back around to find Sherlock fixing him with an odd stare. "Wait..." John pauses. He looks at Sherlock, suddenly full of disbelief. "You mean...?"  
  
Sherlock raises his eyebrows.  
  
John flounders. "You... don't?"  
  
Sherlock smiles.  
  
"...You've never...?"  
  
If possible, Sherlock raises his eyebrows even higher.  
  
"No..." John frowns. "Surely you've... No..."  
  
Sherlock's silence is interrupted by the sound of John's watch beeping. John takes one look at it and swears. "I..." He coughs. "I... uh... to work." And he nearly trips over himself in his rush down the stairs.  
  
***  
  
John can't think about anything else all morning. It's not that he particularly wants to, it's just that... Has Sherlock never... haah... _pleasured himself_? At all? Not even once? But that's mad. Utterly. "Impossible."  
  
"What's impossible?"  
  
John starts and looks up guiltily, suddenly remembering where he is. "Ah, nothing, Mrs Cobb, just, er... aha... Shall we take a look at this burn of yours on your wrist then?"  
  
His patient gives him a confused look but she rolls up her sleeve anyway.  
  
***  
  
The rest of the day continues in much the same way. John finds it hard to concentrate on anything. Damn Sherlock for being so...  
  
He must have been a teenager at some point, right? No boy could possibly get through puberty without discovering... without... at least once...  
  
As much as it would make sense if it weren't true, John's pretty sure that Sherlock _did_ have a childhood and _was_ a teenager at some point and didn't, in fact, arrive in the world six foot tall and fully formed. Surely. _Surely._  
  
"Are you ok?" Sarah smiles at him over her cup of coffee.  
  
"What?" asks John, startled out of his thoughts. "What? No. I'm fine."  
  
"Are you sure? You've seemed distracted all day."  
  
John rubs a hand over his face. He might not have been in a proper relationship for a good few years, but he's pretty sure that 'My flatmate stole my porn and now I can't stop thinking about him masturbating' is not an appropriate topic of conversation.  
  
"It's nothing," he says, lying through his teeth. "I just didn't get much sleep last night."  
  
"Ah," says Sarah, sympathetically. Probably imagining all the trouble that Sherlock's gotten John into this time.  
  
If only she knew.  
  
***  
  
The subject gnaws away at John like an insect bite that gets itchier over time. He walks home, thinking about it. He cooks dinner, thinking about it. He sits watching the television, _thinking about it_.  
  
It's 9pm when Sherlock sweeps into the flat from wherever it is that he's been all day and John nearly jumps out of his skin.  
  
 _Don't think about it. Don't think about it. Don't think about it._ "Hello," says John.  
  
"Evening." Sherlock throws himself into an armchair.  
  
This is normally the point where John would ask Sherlock what he's been up to and Sherlock would launch into the case that he's currently working on, but John doesn't feel up to it tonight. Instead, he doesn't say anything and continues to watch the television as if it's showing the most interesting programme he's seen all year.  
  
Sherlock doesn't watch the television. He watches John instead, a smile on his face.  
  
John tries to ignore him.  
  
It doesn't really work.  
  
The programme on the TV is interrupted by an advert break, but John steadfastly keeps his eyes on the screen. With an amused exhale, Sherlock opens his mouth to say something.  
  
"You must have tried it at some point, surely!" cries John, shocking them both with the outburst.  
  
Sherlock frowns briefly. "Tried what?"  
  
"Oh, don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about," snaps John, but Sherlock remains silent and John is suddenly overcome with embarrassment. He runs a hand through his hair. "You know," he mutters. "What we were talking about this morning. With the..."  
  
"Ah," says Sherlock. "Masturbation."  
  
John's face feels like it's on fire. "Yes."  
  
"Hmm." Sherlock crosses his arms, suddenly looking thoroughly uninterested. "I hadn't thought you were one to dwell on these sorts of things, John. But if you must know then: no, I have never tried it."  
  
"But," says John, "how is that even possible? What about when you were..."  
  
"When I was a boy, I had no time for those sorts of things, and even if I did, I have to say, I've never been able to see the appeal."  
  
"The appeal?" John feels as if he's red as a beetroot, but somehow he can't stop himself. "It feels good, Sherlock! That's the appeal."  
  
"Good?" Sherlock looks at him quizzically.  
  
"Yes." John falters a little. "It feels... It's very good."  
  
Sherlock stares at him for a few seconds longer than is comfortable, then sniffs and turns his attention to the television.  
  
And that, it seems, is the end of _that_ conversation.  
  
***  
  
The next day, John doesn't have to work, and he makes the most of it by rising late and cooking himself eggs for breakfast. He's just tucking into them when Sherlock wanders into the living room and sits opposite John at the table.  
  
"A cup of tea would be nice, John."  
  
John looks up from his breakfast briefly. "You know where the kettle is, Sherlock."  
  
Sherlock smiles at him. "You make it better than I do."  
  
John doesn't deign to give that an answer, and their morning continues on as most of their mornings do: John reads the paper and eats, and Sherlock doesn't.  
  
After five minutes, Sherlock says, "I tried it, you know."  
  
John looks up. "What?" Then he meets Sherlock's eyes and their conversation from the night before comes flooding back to him. "Oh." John coughs and busies himself with his breakfast. "Er... Good."  
  
"It was nice. It felt..."  
  
"Oh God," squeaks John. "That's er... I'm glad for you, but I'd rather not hear..."  
  
"...wonderful. You were right, John. Of course, it was a little difficult at first, what with my being a novice..."  
  
"No," says John, trying not to listen as Sherlock keeps going, but still catching words like _turgid_ and _stroke_ and _glans_ against his best efforts. "No. Stop talking."  
  
"...and technique is hard to pin down. So I decided to copy by example. I simply imagined how you would do..."  
  
" _Jesus._ " John stands, his chair clattering to the floor.  
  
"John?" Sherlock frowns up at him. "Are you ok? I was just saying that I was thinking of your..."  
  
"Out."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I have... I have to go... out."  
  
"But I haven't finished telling you about..."  
  
"It's fine!" Says John, his voice cracking. He scrambles for the door.  
  
"But you haven't finished your breakfast."  
  
"Not hungry."  
  
"But I just wanted to..."  
  
John makes a strangled, desperate noise and dashes down the stairs as fast as he can. A plaintive, "I just wanted to say thank you, John!" follows him all the way out the front door.


End file.
